


Pascal Lamb

by quipquipquip



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-08
Updated: 2011-11-08
Packaged: 2017-10-25 20:50:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/274660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quipquipquip/pseuds/quipquipquip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce struggles with the necessity of sacrifice when waging a crusade. It nearly claims Damian’s life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pascal Lamb

Damian knew something was wrong the moment he snapped awake. He and his father had developed a small ritual---he wouldn't call it a game, because a game implied that one or both parties were enjoying themselves. When his father came to wake him for the evening's patrol, he would try to gently rouse him with a touch, usually on his hand or his shoulder. Damian never allowed him to get that far, always grabbing his fingers and squeezing before he could make contact. His father tried time and time again to create some semblance of normality, never accepting that he was not like any of the other bastards and orphans that he'd fostered over the years. Damian had to prove over and over that he was _better_ than they were, and that not even _Batman_ could sneak up on him in his sleep.

It was an exercise in futility, both of them trying to make a point that the other didn't understand, but they went through the motions nightly.

So when his father stood in the doorway and said his name, low and quiet, he knew that something had shifted. Something had changed, and it wasn't immediately apparent what it was.  
Damian had been lightly dozing, so he didn't have to shake off any lingering sleepiness. His mind was already plucking at the loose threads of the situation, trying to find an answer to this new puzzle.

Had Father given up on inane gestures like shaking him awake?

"Get dressed," his father said evenly, hands clasped loosely behind his back. "It's time."

Any other day, he would have had a snappy remarked primed, a surly demand to know what it was time _for_ , but the wrongness was scuttling over his skin. It silenced him, made him concentrate on understanding and reacting to the changing dynamic.

A part of Damian gasped around the strangled hope that this would be the night that he asked him to _show_ him what he was capable of---all that Grayson had taught him, all that he had learned in the year Father had been gone. Perhaps this would be the night that he allowed him to set the bar, instead of forcing him to limbo beneath the bars his previous Robins had set. It was a bright, ferocious hope; he told himself not to let it grow, but he was already mentally compiling the maneuvers he'd run through.

He'd focus on teamwork, on the cooperative tactics that Dick had drilled into him, because his father hadn't given him the commands for any of them, so far. When Grayson had been his Batman, he had kept a strong call and response between them---plans were agreed upon before they leapt into action, and he constantly readjusted and guided Damian throughout a fight. He never had to question what to do next, because his Batman had been clear in his commands. With his father, he had to shadow him and guess what he was supposed to do---his rules were vague, sometimes only apparent after they'd been broken. And he always got angry--- _so_ angry---when Damian took initiative and acted on his own.

Father wavered between abandonment and absolute control. Damian hated both extremes, but he was not allowed to have a say in the matter.

He dressed quickly, double-knotting the laces of his boots, and joined Batman in the cave.

 

*

 

If he hadn't been looking up, he wouldn't have seen it. If he hadn't seen it and reacted, there was no telling how things would have played out. Later, Dick would try not to think about it, but later, he wouldn't have any choice but to play the scene out in his head, over and over in a Möbius loop.

If he hadn't been looking up, he wouldn't have seen the Bat signal haloed up against the cloud cover. He wouldn't have seen that instead of being as familiar and predictable as the sun, the Bat was distorted--- _moving_. The usual crisp edges of the Bat's wings were twisting and squirming like it was alive…or dying.

When his skin got to crawling like that, Dick had to yield to his curiosity and satisfy the itch to know what was wrong. Some called it superstition, but he called it instinct. Following his gut got him into trouble, but it saved a lot of lives. That evened it out, as far as he was concerned. Playing safe had been bred out of his line generations ago. To be a Grayson was to live life without a net.

As soon as he'd descended on the GCPD building, he had a fraction of a second where he was relieved that he'd followed his instincts and checked it out---just a fraction of a second before the relief was eaten up by horror.

It was a tableau of Old Testament fury. Batman was standing over his own signal, the sunny yellow wad of Robin's cape discarded on his boots. He had one hand raised, the wicked edge of the batarang he was holding gleaming in the stark light.

His other hand was clamped over Damian's face, forcing his neck long and bare. Robin's arms were zip-tied behind his back, trapped underneath him. He was laid prone on the Bat signal, and it was suddenly and horribly apparent that he'd been replaced by a real eleven year old boy---one that couldn't defend himself, and who was a precious few seconds away from getting his throat slit.

Nightwing could see it all play out in his mind's eye. He could see how long it would take before Damian stopped struggling altogether---the macabre Rorschach pattern that his blood would paint across the illuminated disc of the Bat signal. Bruce would be kind; he'd cut both the jugular vein and the carotid artery, resulting in exsanguination in less than a minute. There'd be so much blood---enough to blot out the light of the signal, enough to burn on the heat of the lamp and carry in fetid, thick smoke. It'd be over quickly, and it'd be over messily. Gotham wouldn't forget it---the signal would be ruined, and the sizzling blood would seep into the pores of the concrete---and Bruce would never forgive himself.

No time. No time to process the hows---the _whys_ \---so Dick did what he did best: he _moved_. He swung in hard and fast, grabbing Bruce's wrist and twisting until he felt the grind-pop- _release_. The batarang clattered to the ground, and he kicked it away with a skitter of metal across cement. Using his momentum and all of his weight, he shoved Batman.

Damian remained perfectly still. He craned his head, staring blankly at Dick. He said nothing, but there was a relief and a surprise in his eyes that was almost painful.

He hadn't expected anyone to save him.

If the relief and surprise in Damian's eyes was painful, the relief and surprise in Bruce's eyes was downright agonizing. It didn't take a master detective, much less the World's Greatest one, to piece together the evidence in front of him. He was looking at his bound son with the muddy disgust of someone who had woken up to find a dream dashed against reality. He fisted his hand in his cape and took a step back, then two more---like one step wasn't enough distance between himself and what he had almost done.

He said three words, but they weren't the words of Bruce Wayne. If he'd been Bruce Wayne, he probably would have said "What's going on?", or "Dick, what happened," or even, "I'm sorry, Damian."

But he was The Batman, so he only said, "Take him. Go."

Dick had almost less of an idea of what was happening than _before_ he'd slapped the weapon out of his father's hand. He wasn't going to waste the head start, though, if something had taken over Bruce---if Damian was drugged, he'd be dead weight trailing behind him. He quickly cut the zip-ties and gathered Robin up in his arms.

"Go," Batman repeated, his voice thick with a shame that said that yes, he was in full control.

At that point, it didn't matter. Dick still ran.

Any other time, he would have stood his ground. He would have tried to figure the whole mess, would have brashly tried to approach Bruce and wrestle him into snapping out of whatever sick trance he was in. He would have worried more about his old partner than his own safety, because that was kind of the way he'd always functioned---he wasn't like Tim, who ordered his priorities neatly and knew how to cut his losses.

But his inability to put himself before others hadn't changed. His pecking order had.

He put distance between the GCPD building and them. Ran until exertion wrung his lungs out. Ran until he felt each footfall jar up his knees to his hips. Ran until he _had_ to put Damian down.

Robin hadn't said a word---hadn't made a single sound of protest or dismay. It took an act of God himself for Damian to allow others to carry him, so that was just one notation on the long list of things that were so, so wrong.

Dick set him down, taking a moment to reel in a couple of burning, gulping breaths.

Damian's throat rolled as he swallowed, and he blinked a couple of times. Other than that, nothing.

"Why didn't you stop him?" Dick demanded, squeezing Damian's upper-arms. The boy stared back at him blankly, limp. He shook him without meaning to, trying to get him to react, to _wake up_. "Why didn't you fight? You were just---you were just going to let him---dammit, Damian, answer me!"

"What good would it have done?" Damian asked finally, his eyes wide and dark. "Where would I have gone? You know what the League would do to me." Damian's voice dropped to a thin croak. Dick couldn't remember _ever_ hearing him sound like that. "Mother will not take me back. I have no recourse."

His pupils were blown, calm with the bitterest form of acceptance. It would have been easier had he been scared.

"You could've stayed with me. I wouldn't---I _won't_ let anything happen to you."

"You left, Richard. You went back to your circus."

 _You abandoned me,_ was what he meant. It hit him as swiftly and painfully as a slug to the gut.

And he had. In no small way, he'd abandoned Damian. He hadn't meant to, though. He'd been so relieved to shed the weight of the cape and go back to being Nightwing, he'd let himself buy into the front that his Robin had put up. A part of him had known that it was all talk, that Damian's excitement at joining his father's crusade alongside the real Batman would last a week at most, but he'd been so selfishly _relieved_ to hand everything over to Bruce. He'd pretended that the two of them would find some kind of middle ground---that they both had grown enough to work together, despite Bruce not understanding how to raise a kid, and Damian being nothing like any kid alive.

"I thought that was where I needed to be. And I was wrong. That's why I---I---" Dick's voice cracked. His lungs burned like he'd been running too long. "No matter what, no matter what happens, you're family. Got that?"

"Family?" Damian echoed, and the uncertainty in his voice broke Dick's heart more than he could possibly let on. If he thought about it too hard---if he focused on how Damian _still_ didn't believe that he had people in his life who gave a damn---he'd cease to function. He'd break down, and he couldn't let himself do that. If he broke down, Damian wouldn't have a chance in hell.

"C'mere," Dick managed to choke out, and pulled his Robin into the kind of embrace that probably squeezed all the air out of him. It didn't matter. The kid was already as deflated and defeated as they came.

Usually, Damian would have shoved him away and slithered out of his arms with the ease of someone who knew how to break out of any chokehold. But this time, he didn't fight or evade. He just tucked his face against his chest and shook. He didn't cry---didn't make a damn sound---but he trembled. He could feel the muscles in his back seize up tight and quiver like he wanted to jump, wanted to run, wanted to _fight_ , but couldn't.

He was scared. He was counting on Dick to hold him together.

"Until we figure this out, you're staying with me."

He felt him nod. Damian curled up a little further, his hands bunched into fists against Dick's spine. The boy couldn't hug him back, but that was as close as he got to it.

 

*

 

Bruce didn't remember much of the ride back to the cave. It was a small blessing that the Batmobile had such a sophisticated autopilot system, because he was in no shape to drive. He had little to no memory of the evening, and what he did remember he was turning over in his head in an effort to make _sense_ of it. He remembered suiting up. Remembered thinking about talking to Damian about the dog---again. Remembered keying up the reports he'd compiled earlier, and then…

Nothing. Blackness shot through with the upturned, echoing note of question in Damian's voice when he'd said, _Father?_.

There was a hole in his memory between sitting at the computer and Dick's intervention on the rooftop.

There should not have been a hole. His mind had more trap doors and garrisons than a castle; _how_ had he lost control?

Bruce retraced his steps, starting at the computer monitor. He sat in his chair, staring at the blank black screen.

And then it turned on. No picture, but clear audio. Again, something that should not have been---another defense breached.

"Home again already, Detective? Perhaps you'll indulge my curiosity, then. How did it go?"

Bruce's jaw clenched. He ground his teeth.

 _"Ra's."_

"Mm, yes," the fittingly disembodied Demon's Head said. "Breaching our gentleman's agreement, I'm afraid. But I believe our past _infractions_ have warranted this."

"What have you done?" The Batman snarled, gripping the armrests of his chair until the padded leather squeaked. "What did you _do?"_

"What did _I_ do?" Ra's repeated, then laughed. "I have done nothing but indulge my curiosity. My daughter told me that you treat it as a son, now. It's a failed experiment, that child. Our second try has already proven to be much more promising. If you _did_ rid yourself of it, it can easily be replaced."

"I didn't do anything," Bruce said, each word coming with great difficulty. Ra's had set this up. Ra's had gotten his claws into him---somehow, impossibly, almost fatally---and for what? To test his resolve? To push the boundaries of what he considered human? " _He_ is unharmed. This won't be forgotten, Ra's. You went too far."

"Nonsense. You said it yourself---you didn't do anything. And I did not force your hand at any step of the way. You were fully in control," Ra's said, his tone still oily with amusement. "But the question still remains. Would you have sacrificed him, had your circus boy not intervened?"

Bruce couldn't answer that. He couldn't say where his mind had been in the seconds before the pain of a sprained wrist had woken him up---couldn't say for certain what his actions would have been, since he wasn't positive who had been in control. He didn't know if Ra's had found a way into his head and had been controlling him, or if it had been some kind of deeply-rooted desire to rid himself of the burden of the boy that had been amplified. Neither option was a good one. Both left Bruce feeling faintly sick.

"My daughter had been so _sure_ ," Ra's murmured, his voice dipping a silken octave. "So very sure that you thought of him as your child, now. And perhaps you do, just as you've mimed the appropriate level of fatherhood toward your other young wards. But we know better, Detective, don't we? The truth of the matter is, you will sacrifice all for your cause. The sooner you accept that, the more useful to the world you will become. You---"

Ra's was cut off by a spitting cascade of sparks. Bruce had put his gauntlented fist through the computer monitor. His anger had gotten the better of him---the tens of thousands of dollars he'd wasted on wrecking the screen had been worth silencing Ra's. It was shameful of a man with his control and training, but he just----he couldn't stand his twisted, bleak truths for a second longer.

He wouldn't have done it. He knew that he wouldn't have hurt him.

Not his son.

But there would be no proving that, would there?

"What am I doing?" Bruce asked the ruined computer, the weight of the last several hours pressing hard against his shoulderblades. It made him bend, face in his hands. He could barely breathe against the pressure of that _almost_.

"Trying, sir," Alfred answered quietly, gently. The old butler laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. It was a rare, brief comfort. He didn't need to ask how long he had been there. "I do believe that you're _trying."_


End file.
